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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29144574">And We Will Make This Place Our Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amyreadsandstresses/pseuds/Amyreadsandstresses'>Amyreadsandstresses</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Child Verse [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Parent Sherlock, Parentlock, Pre-Canon, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has Issues, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock's Heart, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock's Past, Sherlock's Violin, Sherlock-centric, Single Parent Sherlock, Unilock, Unplanned Pregnancy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:27:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29144574</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amyreadsandstresses/pseuds/Amyreadsandstresses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This was progress, not the kind he had ever expected to make, but it was better than shaking next to toilettes or losing time to cocaine. He still felt it sometimes, the calling, the dark edges of his mind; not as much as he had a month ago, but it was certainly there, he wondered if it would ever go away entirely. He hoped it would.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes has come a long way; now that he is starting to find his footing, he wants to move forward. It's all about progress from now on. His utmost priority? Finding a job, giving his daughter a home, making a life of his own.</p><p>---</p><p>Fourth part to "The Child Verse," can stand alone but always better with the other parts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Original Male Character/Original Female Character, Sherlock Holmes &amp; Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/Original Male Character(s), past Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Child Verse [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118003</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A New Beginning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Ah! I'm so sorry it took so long! But here is the next part, at last. If you have made it this far into the series, thank you so much1 If you are new, welcome! I hope you enjoy this bit :)<br/>Now, this part will be a bit different; it will be a two one-shots set followed by another set of one-shots detailing the highlights of the first two years of Beth's life. And yes, in the next set, the rest of the Holmes clan gets to come out and play. <br/>Now, go forth, and I hope you enjoy!</p><p>Sadly, I don't own Sherlock. I sadly don't own Sherlock. But I do own Bethany Holmes, Gina, and Jack; as well as the plot.<br/>Please don't repost this fic anywhere without my permission and credit.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The rain was pouring out the window. Nighttime had fallen over the city like a blanket several hours ago, shortly after he had gone out for the day. It was a new part of his routine, walking around the city for a few hours after Beth had gone to sleep. During the third night out, Sherlock had found this small pub tucked away in a corner, three blocks from Jack and Gina’s flat; he'd gone in, wanting shelter from the bouts of rain now regularly falling over the streets. He always ended his nights here now, he ordered a lemonade and worked on the flat list, or the possible jobs list, or any other list he had somehow wound up getting stuck with. Beth’s developmental list was his favourite. He would work on them for a bit, checking for new variables and attempting to make some semblance of a short-term plan. An hour or two later, he would grab his things and go home... or whatever the sofa in a shared flat was supposed to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been three months, three months since he became a father, since Sabel died, since everything changed. Somehow, the world was starting to make sense again. It was, if not good, bearable. Rather bleak, on occasion, but better than the crushing misery at the beginning; he supposed it was progress. He wanted more progress. A flat of his own, for Beth and him; a job, even if it wasn’t the kind he may have had as a graduate chemist; he wanted his independence back. No more looking to Gina for shelter and Jack for babysitting. He could do it on his own, if only he found how. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The list wasn’t very promising. Every flat he’d looked at had been a disgrace; the ones that seemed acceptable were too expensive and the ones he could afford were barely an excuse for an inhabitable space. It was all rather disappointing. The jobs were no better. He refused to spend his days sweeping floors and cleaning toilettes, Gina didn’t think he would be any good in customer service and most jobs he could get without his university degree wouldn’t get him far in paying for a flat in the first place. It was all a tragic cycle of missed opportunities. He sighed, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is hopeless.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“All good there, kid?” Marcus, the pub owner, asked from his left. The man seemed to spend most nights around customers, making rounds across the room. The first time Sherlock had come into the pub, Marcus had tried to kick him back out; apparently, he didn’t look his age.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Define good” he stared back at the older man, face blank. The dark eyebrows on the man’s face raised, entertained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a no, then” Marcus stepped right in front of him, holding his gaze. Sherlock respected that, no matter how much he scowled in his direction, the older man was not intimidated; most people strayed away after he read them like a book. Not Marcus, he had been amused. “And what’s a kid like you gotta be so stressed about? Girl unhappy with ya?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled at that; Beth had been fussy all day, by no fault of his, of course, for once he’d done everything right. Just like him, there were days when Beth was simply unhappy with the world. Jack believed she would develop a scowl just like his soon enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose, if the girl you mean is meant to be three months old.” The easy-going smile previously playing at the other man’s lips disappeared in a second, surprise taking over his face. Sherlock’s stomach twisted itself into a knot. Was it always going to be like this? Would every idiot he encountered stare at him as if he were some sort of a circus attraction, or worse, a pity case, whenever he mentioned he had a child?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You a daddy?” he nodded, barely. “Now, no offense chap, but aren’ ya too young to have a little one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His blood burned, a fire rising in his veins. What kind of an idiotic question was that supposed to be? As if he didn’t know his own age. As if he hadn’t spent the last three months wrapping his head around the existence of a child with whom he shared his genetics. Honestly, must every person in the world be so thoroughly stupid?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clearly not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The older man hummed, looking away. After a second, he went around the bar, grabbing a glass from some hidden cupboard and wiping it clean with a pink flannel. Sherlock ignored him, going back to the frustratingly worthless list across from him, the one he had made after weeks of looking at the papers and collecting data from any establishment around the city he had come across. The list of possible jobs. Most had been crossed out by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What 's that?” Marcus leaned forward, hovering over the small notebook, never letting go of the glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The possible jobs list, can’t well keep a child alive without one, can I?” Sherlock didn’t look up at the other man, resolved to keep ignoring him until he went away or, at least, stopped talking to him. Gina was probably right, customer service wasn’t for him. God knows how he would tolerate idiots all day.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any luck?” his shoulders tensed. He thought he had made it rather clear he didn’t intend to continue this inane conversation. If he had had </span>
  <em>
    <span>any luck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he wouldn’t be looking at the list in the first place. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Obvious. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope”, Sherlock made sure to pop the</span>
  <em>
    <span> p</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Isabel had always said most people found it annoying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily, it seemed to work. Marcus went back to his side of the wooden bar, keeping to his glass wiping. For blessed minutes, there was silence. Sherlock took another sip of the lemonade, pretending he didn’t notice the other man’s gaze on him. He tried to focus on the list again, to find some previously hidden opportunity within its lines. Nothing. The list was as pointless as ever. He passed a hand through his hair, pulling slightly. Marcus cleared his throat, looking him up and down carefully. At Sherlock’s insistent ignorance of the older man’s presence, the pub owner cleared his throat louder. Sherlock looked up, annoyed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How old are ya, kid?” he frowned. He had proven his age the first time he had walked into the little establishment, was he really going to start questioning his presence in it now that he knew of his early parenthood?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does that matter?” Sherlock recoiled, venom dripping from his voice. From what he had gotten from Marcus that first night, he had concluded it would be of no harm to stick around, to mention Beth. He looked at the other man again, taking him in. Wrinkled clothes, missed laundry day; dyes his white hairs, doesn’t want to seem frail as a business owner, cares for his appearance; no wedding ring, divorced going by the picture at the back of the bar he had seen the other day; has two children, both grown. No, he shouldn’t be a risk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just answer the question” the tone of the man’s voice dropped, turning into the stereotypical </span>
  <em>
    <span>dad voice</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wondered if he would ever have one, if Beth would ever make some semblance of a stereotypical father out of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nineteen” Marcus nodded, setting both his arms on the bar, supporting his weight on his elbows. He looked directly into Sherlock’s eyes, stern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got any family?” he rolled his eyes at that. Of course he had one, everyone did. Their existence, however, didn’t necessarily mean they were close. He hadn’t seen his parents since he went away to uni, and Mycroft since his birthday, back when Isabel hadn’t told him of the pregnancy yet. In the last year, there had been no contact between the Holmes family, at least none including him. Well, not except for the mysterious raised access to his trust fund a few days ago. Mycroft, he was sure; his parents would have left him to the streets after they heard of his drug use. Occasionally, he thought of what would happen if he showed up at their door, baby in tow; he wouldn’t, not ever. Bethany didn’t deserve to live in that suffocating house. Regardless, if they cared to meet her, they would have reached out already; after the field day the whole of Cambridge had had with the news of Isabel’s pregnancy and their future parenthood, there was absolutely no way they hadn’t heard of the scandal yet. Perhaps there had been some initial disbelief, but surely not anymore. At least he knew Mycroft had come to terms with it. The fat git’s spying had finally paid off, literally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None that matters” he raised his lemonade to his lips, but paused before taking a sip, “well, besides a baby.”  Beth mattered, she had to. Even if she was far too young to be of any use. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, ya alone, then?” his heart clenched at that; </span>
  <em>
    <span>disgusting</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d been alone his whole life, it didn’t use to bother him anymore, it was just the way of things. Sherlock Holmes belonged with no one. But horrible as it was, because it really was a horrid thought, he didn’t want to be alone now. Though he supposed he wasn’t really, not if one considered another pair of college kids. Even so, there was only so much they could do. Sherlock wasn’t going to tell Marcus that, however. Absolutely not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there a reason for this fairly obnoxious line of questioning or are you just trying to rot my brain farther?” Marcus straightened, crossing his arms over his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oi, if I were ya, I would be a hella lot nicer with the man offerin’ me a job.” Sherlock stared at that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Offering a job? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He, embarrassingly, was incapable of saying anything, instead gaping like a fish, blinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” he finally managed. His hard drive seemed to have come across a glitch of sorts. What reason could some stranger have to offer him a job? Pity? He didn’t want pity, not from anyone, and especially not from some pub owner that hardly knew him at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been meaning to get someone to help 'round here, cook’s rather fed up with the load if you get my meanin’.” Sherlock frowned, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>kitchen.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Well, he would be rather useless there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t cook” Marcus threw his hand around, dismissively. A shadow of a smile returned to the man’s face and he placed his hands on the bar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I'm sure she’ll find ya somethin’ to do'' at the lack of enthusiasm from Sherlock, the older man frowned. He leaned back again, seemingly disappointed. “Look kid, ya need a job, ya got a kid, I’m just offerin’, you don’t want it, don’t take it”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down at the list again, noticing the two thirds that had been crossed; the few jobs he still had to try were all diminishing. This was… not good, but better. He knew the place, he was sure Marcus wouldn’t involve anything dubious, and he did need to find something fast. Perhaps, as a beginning, it was acceptable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much?” Marcus cocked an eyebrow, his head tilting slightly, “the salary, how much is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The older man relaxed, his shoulders dropping. That calm expression was back on his face and he seemed almost excited when he looked at Sherlock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends, how much do ya need?” this was starting to feel terribly close to charity. Was this man going to try and make him his project? Though, if he was that willing to help...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough to get me a flat.” The excitement drained right out of Marcus’ face. Sherlock’s insides twisted again, he had known it was a long shot, but he had needed to try. He was truly desperate to get out of Gina’s sofa, and he was sure both she and Jack were getting tired of having him around as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s an expensive city, lad” the older man started, lacing his fingers, “maybe you ought to aim a bit lower for a month or two.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock frowned; he had been afraid of that. A month or two could easily become a year if he let it. Time had passed by him so quickly already, it seemed like only a week ago he had been high as a kite, sharing a blurry-faced man’s bed, before he had gotten closer to Isabel. Now there was a child, no Isabel and he was talking about jobs with a pub owner. Sherlock didn’t want to lose any more time, so much had been spent in adapting and withdrawal already. He looked down at the wood under his arms, at the small notebook filled with lists. Sherlock passed the pages quietly, looking for Beth’s list. It was filled with her development; her first smile, her first babble, the first time she raised her head on her own, the first time she pulled on his hair. He raised a hand to his mouth, gnawing at his thumb, a nervous habit he had been trying to get rid of for years; he needed a job, more than the flat. The new access to his trust fund was convenient, but it wouldn’t last forever, he knew that, he’d already burned through most of it during his first year at Cambridge, during his affair with cocaine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needed money, quickly. Beth would only get more expensive, as would his own needs. He didn’t need to do any shopping or bills now and he was already struggling. A month or two, just a few weeks, not much at all. He could wait a bit longer, couldn’t he? It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he didn’t have a flat immediately. Later, when he had more money saved, perhaps larger access to his trust fund too. All the other jobs were a lost cause anyway, he didn’t have much choice anymore. Not without a degree. Sherlock sighed, his mind made. He would wait, gain more money, make a better plan. In the meantime, he would make more here than he would anywhere else. Only for a little while. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, what kind of job would this be, exactly?” Marcus smiled, clapped his hands, and started talking. Speaking of dishes and cutting onions, of frustrated cooks and short staffs, of getting customer discounts and flexible hours for his </span>
  <em>
    <span>special circumstances.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And Sherlock listened, making mental notes on who to avoid and what never to do, he thought of which shifts would be better for him and how to juggle Beth with them. He planned, and felt, for the first time in a year, useful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had all been said and done in an hour or so, a deal had been made and Sherlock was instructed to go back on Monday night for his first shift. He would have to ask Gina and Jack to look after Beth during the nights. Not that they didn’t do so already, while he went on his walks. Even so, he was sure they would be relieved, especially Gina. This was progress, not the kind he had ever expected to make, but it was better than shaking next to toilettes or losing time to cocaine. He still felt it sometimes, the calling, the dark edges of his mind; not as much as he had a month ago, but it was certainly there, he wondered if it would ever go away entirely. He hoped it would, that in five years he wouldn’t think about the seven percent solution all the time, that he wouldn’t miss a life he never had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Would his parents be horrified if they knew how his life had turned out? Would they scrunch up their noses and look down at him if they were to knock on his door tomorrow? Would they try to take Beth away? Or, maybe, they would ask to meet her, to know of Isabel, to help. It was a very slim possibility, even more so after so many months of silence, but he supposed it could happen. And what of Mycroft? What would he do at the face of Bethany? Considering the trust fund incident, he supposed his brother might be more willing to be involved, perhaps the money was his way of asking. Or perhaps it was out of the familial obligation that seemed to drive every encounter between them since he had abandoned Sherlock with their parents and ran off to London. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t matter now. They were living their lives and he was living his. He had made progress today, that mattered. He had a job, a beginning, something for him, something for Beth. It wasn’t what he had wanted from his life when he had moved to Cambridge, when he had decided to study Chemistry, he had wanted laboratories and experiments. The path he was on was almost unrecognizable to him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> was almost unrecognizable; he hoped someday it would be different. Sherlock kept walking home, pacing the streets of London, the future a sea of endless possibilities before him.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Monday night he went to the pub earlier than usual. He was wearing a black shirt, as instructed by Marcus three days prior. The sun was lowering in the sky above them, it would be dark soon, and with the dark, his first job would begin. He had left Beth awake, she had reached and cried for him, no longer used to being separate from him. Sherlock’s chest had clenched almost painfully at the pitiful scene of the tear-streaked infant extending her arms </span>
  <span>in his general direction; Gina had had to basically shove him out of the flat and close the door on his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, entering the bar before the thickest clientele arrived, he clenched his hands twice and went to the still empty bar, stopping in front of the bartender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where can I find Marcus?” the red-haired woman looked up at him, her pixie cut shaking as she shrugged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have an appointment or something?” his jaw clenched. Honestly, these people.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I start work today, he said to meet him upon arrival.” Her face shifted right away, a smile gracing her red lips and she pointed at the left pillar, besides the drinks wall. “Behind that pillar there, just knock on the door and he’ll let you in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded, walking to the wooden pillar. He stopped at the door, hesitating. The moment he knocked, the world would change again. A good change, he hoped, but a part of him wished he could hold on a while longer, still time, or jump to the ending, eighteen years from now, see if he doesn’t ruin it after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knocked, and waited, and knocked again, annoyed at the lack of response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A second” a voice called from inside. Sherlock stood in front of the door, hands in the pockets of his trousers. He was wearing a new hoodie over his shirt, Jack had gotten it for him the morning after he told them about the job. Something about making a good impression by not wearing the old stained thing he had for a coat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed to take hours, long enough for his mind to drift back to Beth’s crying and run miles around how she was doing now, if Jack was still the best one at calming her, if he would ever be as good of a parent as he wanted to be, if Beth would know to miss him had he not taken them to Gina’s, what he would do once he moved out and had to leave for the night. He couldn’t bring Beth along, not to a kitchen; not yet, at the very least. Perhaps he could drop her off at Gina’s once he moved out, but, would she allow it? There would be nights when the other two wouldn’t be available, that much was obvious, but he couldn't afford a babysitter, and he couldn’t bring her, so what would he do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He started gnawing at his thumb again when the door opened, Marcus holding a phone to his ear at the other side of it. The older man smiled his way and said his goodbyes to whoever he was talking to. Sherlock shifted in place, cracking his knuckles; how long was starting his shift going to take?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey kid,” the older man stretched his arm Sherlock’s way, he shook it. “Ready for your first day?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded, trying for his </span>
  <em>
    <span>people smile</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if the man was going to pay him, he might as well make sure Marcus liked him. The pub owner placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and steered them along the side of the room, all the way to a small entrance that was nearly impossible to spot until you found yourself right in front of it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This way. Kitchen’s out back, past this hallway here, bathroom’s in between” they followed a series of black arrows printed on the red walls, he memorized the way. “Take a right here, and voila.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus extended his hand across the small, white room. It was… chaotic. There were people walking everywhere, others bent over cutting boards and casseroles; a few were washing dishes and carrying boxes. And at the center, was a mid-forties angry-looking woman, she was barking orders, swinging spoons, and slamming knives on the table she had taken over. Sherlock took an involuntary step back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Marleen!” the pub owner smiled as we waved the woman over. He got a venomous scowl for his troubles. “This here is Sherlock, kid’s starting work here today, I’m sendin’ him your way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got a hand at cookin’?” Marleen spat his way. A shudder ran down his back; this would not be good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing significant, no” he muttered under his breath, awaiting the explosion that was sure to come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tell ya I need people back here and ya get me a green lad” Marcus shrugged, unbothered by it all. Sherlock would have asked that question himself had he not feared for the state of his throat. The cook was still wielding her knife. “Oh! well, that’s bloody great, innit? Take a look ‘round Marc, does it look to ya like I’ve got the time to train a laddie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll find some use for him, I’m sure.” Sherlock would have liked nothing more but to smack the self-satisfied expression from the other man’s face. By the look of it, so did Marleen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cook turned to him then, looking at his hands, then his hoodie, his shoes, and finally, his face. Given the grimace she sported, he had been found lacking; she didn’t want him around. He squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and smirked. He needed this job, and he was damn well going to keep it. This wasn’t the first time some adult or another had decided he was of no use to them; he’d proven them all wrong before, and he would do it again if he had to. His mind had turned out remarkable after years of silence during his childhood; he had learned the entirety of the periodic table at eight years old, he had gotten into Cambridge with little to no effort. He may have been a disappointment to his parents, but he was still well above the average person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give something to do, and I’ll do it.” She raised an eyebrow at him, her grimace deepening. “I’ll prove it to you, I can be useful and I will be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus beamed at that, squeezing his shoulder and signaling him with his free hand. The cook still seemed remarkably unimpressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There ya go!” Marcus boomed, shaking Sherlock slightly, “he’ll be useful, now put a spoon on the lad’s hand and accept your extra pair of hands, will ya?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marleen stomped in his direction, stopping just before their noses touched. She smelled of onions and cilantro. Sherlock fought down the urge to recoil, holding her gaze and keeping the grin in place. The woman pointed her finger at him and smacked it against his chest, threateningly holding the knife behind her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll do what I tell ya, when I tell ya and how I tell ya” her finger smacked against his chest again, “if ya turn out a waste of ma time, if ya turn out useless or more trouble than you’re worth, I’ll throw ya outta my kitchen myself, clear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked behind her, into the crowded room filled to the brink with cooking utensils and vegetables. It was not what he had expected, not at all. He wondered if this wasn’t as much of a charity as it was a punishment. Still, it was what he had. It was just for a month or two, a little while, no time at all. Just until he came up with a better plan. He could do this, he had to. And we would. He would be better than any of them gave him credit for, and then he would leave, find something better. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Just for a little while. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crystal.” He widened his smirk, making it boyish. The cook narrowed her eyes at him, an evil, twisted smile curling around the corners of her lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ya can help Mason with da potatoes, then.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman walked away, going back to her table at the center of the room. He turned to look at Marcus. He was holding his thumbs up at him, a pleased smile on his face. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, completely unimpressed. Marcus gestured to his hoodie and turned to the back wall and grabbed an apron for him. Sherlock looked around again, trying to find some corner to leave his new article and ensure it would remain partially intact by the end of the night. There was a wooden chair with a broken-in-half leg at his left, next to the freezers, covered in several coats and jackets. He left his hoodie on top and made his way back to Marcus and retrieved his apron.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mason’s right there, next to the oven” the pub owner pointed out a red-haired man covered in freckles who was surrounded by buckets of carrots and, yes, potatoes. Sherlock nodded, tying his apron over his shirt. “Oi, don’t let her get to ya head, Marleen is a tough cookie, but she’s a good one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sent him an incredulous look and dismissively waved a hand at the other man’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>good luck.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sherlock made his way around ovens, tables, boxes, people, and lonesome pans until he reached the red-haired bloke. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mason.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He looked around until he found a knife and grabbed a potato, given the bowl filled with crust, he was meant to peel them. Alright. It couldn’t be that hard, he’d watched </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mycroft</span>
  </em>
  <span> peel a potato once, during Christmas. If the fat git could do it, then he certainly could. He held the knife against the vegetable and thrust his blade against its superficial cover. He took a gigantic chunk along with it. Sherlock cursed under his breath, trying for the opposite side of the food item and repeating the process; it was worse. He dropped the knife with a loud thud and growled. How could he generate an exact chemical reaction in seconds, but not peel a potato? Ridiculous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey” the bloke beside him tapped his knee against his. Sherlock turned to look at him with a scowl. Mason merely smiled. “Like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at the freckled hands, studying the gentle way he wielded the blade, lifting a thin layer of crust and curling his wrist around the vegetable, taking the rest along. Sherlock nodded, grabbing a new potato, and tried again. He made sure to copy Mason’s exact movements, to be gentle, and peeled. It was still a bit thicker than he had wanted, but much more acceptable than the first one. The corner of his lips quirked upward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you go,” Mason smiled at his potato, “much better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to look at the red hair, noting his unblemished skin. He was young, almost as young as him going by the state of the skin around his eyes and neck. Twenty-one, by his calculations. What was he doing in a kitchen? Mason seemed to read his mind, smiling sheepishly and going back to his task.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gotta pay for school somehow, right?” Ah, university student, not enough of a scholarship to pay for tuition. Nothing manual, his hands were far too soft looking for that, business, most likely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t know” he muttered. Paying for school had never been his problem. Not even when he was cut off from his trust fund. From the corner of his eye, he saw the questioning look on the freckled face. Would it be a good idea, mentioning Beth so early on? Mentioning her to a stranger in a hidden away kitchen? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not here for school, then?” Sherlock nodded, keeping to his peeling. “Then why work here? If you can pay for school, you don’t need to be here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never said I was economically stable.”  He supposed it couldn’t do much harm, he was hardly going to get fired for having a baby at home, and he wasn’t there to make friends. Besides, if it would bring this pointless chatter to an end, all the better. “I’m not here to pay for school, I’m here to maintain a child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn, that’s love.” He looked up sharply at that. Not the response he had been expecting, not at all. “Walking into Marleen’s kitchen for someone, that’s love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fought down a smile at the playful look dangling in the other man’s eyes. He supposed Mason had a point, Marleen didn’t seem like an easy person to work for. He cleared his throat, held his knife against the crust, and went back to peeling potatoes. For once, the new job didn’t seem so bad. At least his partner for the day was not intolerable. The night was looking up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun was coming up by the time he arrived at the door. His whole body ached. He was sure his wrists would be out of use for days, his shoulders and upper arms were significantly angry at the abuse he’d put them through by carrying boxes around all night. His neck wasn’t pleased with holding his head down for hours on end either. He hadn’t expected work in a kitchen to be this painful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opened the door and entered the flat, for the first time in a decade absolutely desperate for sleep. Gina and Jack were sharing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, they turned to look at him as he came in and smiled his way. Beth laid by their feet, playing with a stuffed dog he had gotten at some corner shop or another during his nightly walks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was work?” Jack asked over the rim of his cup, wiggling his brows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Painful.” Beth turned at the sound of his voice, a smile breaking out on her face and she dropped the toy, reaching for him. Sherlock obliged, walking towards the infant and bending down to retrieve her. A groan escaped his lips at his muscles’ complaints and he held the baby against his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was just a kitchen, how could that be painful?” Gina laughed at him, a gentle teasing dripping from her voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Piss off.” he walked towards the stretched out sofa, collecting a blanket from the floor as he went and all but collapsed on top of the cushions, baby in hand. He wrapped them both with the soft fabric and closed his eyes, drifting off to the sound of Gina’s chuckling and Beth’s breathing. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. One Step Forwards, Two Steps Backwards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Beth was still with Jack and Gina, he went to the bathroom and started the shower. As he washed his hair, the same idea that had been plaguing his mind all night took root, growing by the second.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ah! Finally!!! Sorry about the delay, this week was remarkably busy, but I managed to get this chapter done in time for a Friday present for everyone!! I hope you like it, hope you liked this part, hope you like the series so far and I hope you stick around for the next part.</p><p>Now, before you read, I have one thing to say: I'm so sorry, you'll see why.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He was running late. He had never been late to his shift before, in fact, his punctuality had grown to be an almost obsessive quality; an unusual development of his. His mother would never believe it if she heard. To be fair, his income had never depended on his punctuality before, just like he’d never even had a personal income until now. And, as his father would surely say if he were here, the year was still young; he had been working for five months and he was finally late to work. What’s worse, he was running late and had a baby bundled up in his arms. A baby he was taking to a pub, to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>kitchen</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a pub, and he didn’t even have a carrier or a baby seat. He’d forgotten them back at the flat in his hurry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beth was babbling at him, keeping a one-sided conversation as the two of them transversed the darkening streets of the city, occasionally, he would nod or humm at her; she got upset when he didn’t and would attack with her tiny fists or remarkably hostile baby groans the moment she felt ignored. How such a young person could need that much attention was beyond him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been hellish back at Gina’s. Cambridge was starting exams week, so neither Gina nor Jack could stay with Beth during the night, being written down for study sessions at the library until after midnight. And, since there was no one else to turn to, he had found no way to place Beth somewhere else. He’d tried getting her to sleep early, if she did, it wouldn’t be the first time he left her alone for a whole night, but the baby wasn’t a newborn anymore and he wasn’t high. So, seeing no other options and not wanting to miss his shift, he had gotten her into an atrocious bear-shaped coat, two blankets and ran out the door with his daughter in his arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They caught several lingering looks from bystanders as they neared the pub; be it because of how young they both looked or because of the hour was up to debate. He had known from the beginning this would happen, that Gina and Jack wouldn’t be available eventually and he would have to figure something out. He had known and he had not made any plans. It felt like failure, and he despised failing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, the little corner that hosted the pub came into view. Sherlock quickened his pace, hoping for some miraculous revelation that would solve this for him, preferably one with babysitting skills and a more useful bag than the one dangling from his shoulder. At least he had brought formula and diapers. Beth pulled one of his dark locks, demanding his attention back; he untangled her fingers from his hair and gently squeezed the tiny hand in his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t do that Child” he murmured as he walked “I’m told it’s not a habit to encourage in children.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She made her dissatisfaction perfectly clear through a light kick to his ribs and a groan. He quirked a smile her way; it took some stubborn frowning and a repeated complaint to remind him she was still offended at his divided attention, but eventually, Beth smiled back at him and resumed her babbled conversation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached the door to the establishment and hesitated for a very long second, holding onto the baby tighter. Would Marcus let him stay? Could he even stay, considering the tiny human he had brought along with him? He really didn’t want to miss a payment by not showing up to work. He looked at Bethany one more time, who, in return, frowned at him and at the door, clearly asking what was taking them so long. Finally, she pointed inside the building and cooed in a way he had learned meant she wanted something. Sherlock nodded and opened the door, heading straight to Marcus’ office, ignoring the questioning looks from the few customers as he went, and knocked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now Child, don’t fuss” he whispered in the baby’s ear, “we need him to like you. Look conventionally adorable, like when you intend for me to let you bite my fingers.” Though, that might not be such a good idea. “Actually no, more like when you want a toy. Don’t bite his fingers, I doubt he’ll appreciate it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beth huffed near his shoulder, sounding remarkably like Gina did when he used up all of her patience. He fought down a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opened in front of him, Marcus was holding onto the rail with a frozen smile on his face. The owner’s eyes strayed to the baby, staying there for several breaths as Sherlock’s blood turned to ice in his veins. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a kid” Sherlock waited, expecting far more than some half-cooked idiotic statement; when none was forthcoming, he raised an eyebrow, thoroughly unimpressed by humanity's disappointing tendency to point out the obvious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Remarkable observation, Marcus.” Beth grabbed hold of his curls again, this time playing with them instead of pulling. He let her. The older man kept looking at them as if he had never before found himself in front of a parent and their child; the baby kept up with her games, unbothered by all the attention. Sherlock wished he could say the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That your child?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Marcus blinked repeatedly and pointed at Beth, the left corner of his mouth slightly raised, “The little one?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I am simply in the habit of picking up random children from the street.” he deadpanned, face blank. “Of course she’s mine, don’t be obtuse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right… and what’s she doin’ here, again?” Sherlock looked down, definitely not squirming under the other man’s attention, and took a deep breath, trying to find his words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… her aunt and uncle weren’t available tonight, exams” Marcus nodded, barely. “I have no one else to leave her with, I was hoping she could stay in your office.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pub owner startled, his eyes opening wide as he looked between Bethany and his office, his hold on the rail tightened and he lifted one of his hands as if he meant to push Sherlock back a few steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, hold on a second.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s over five months old, she sleeps through the night now.” Sherlock cut in, quickly derailing the man’s attention. Perhaps if he overwhelmed him with information, Marcus’ brain would overload just as most of his university peers and professors did when he tried the same tactic on them, it was a marvelous distraction, they usually wound up agreeing to whatever Sherlock asked of them afterward. “I’ll just be in the kitchen, and she can sleep here and you won’t have to concern yourself with either of us; you won’t even realize she’s here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid…” Marcus frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and nervously glancing at him. Sherlock’s insides turned; he had to say yes,</span>
  <em>
    <span> he had to.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t miss my shift,” both of his eyebrows flew upwards, his nose scrunching just enough for his eyes to narrow and turn his whole face into the very image of suffering; there was a time when such a face worked on his grandmother. “I can’t afford it. But I can’t just leave her alone either.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus let out a very long breath, passing a hand over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose; he looked over his hand at both him and the baby. The pub owner looked back at his office and grimaced, closing the door behind him. Sherlock’s lungs seemed to completely deflate at the sight, but whatever furious rambling that had started to build at the tip of his tongue was interrupted by Marcus putting a hand over his shoulder and steering them both down the hall, on their way to the kitchen.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, come on.” They walked side by side, the older man’s hand never leaving his shoulder. Beth babbled along as they walked, keeping up whatever baby-spoken conversation she thought the three of them were sharing gleefully; Sherlock didn’t miss how Marcus smiled at the baby as she spoke directly at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Too soon, the kitchen appeared before them, the usual chaos making the small, white room much more lively than it was. Perhaps because of all the movement, or the smells, or even the colors, Beth shrieked at the sight, her legs and arms flapping about excitedly. Everyone stopped, turning to look at them, eyes and mouths opened almost comically once they processed it was Sherlock who was holding Beth. Many of them didn’t know of her existence; he’d seen no point in bringing her up. One of the few who did, Mason, smiled warmly as he looked at both Sherlock and his daughter; the tension in Sherlock’s back lessened slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The hell is that?” Marleen, unpleasant as ever, did not share into Mason’s warmth. No, the angry-looking cook pointed at Beth with a wooden spoon, scowling as if she were the most atrocious thing the woman had ever seen. Sherlock bristled, his jaw clenching while his blood boiled. As usual, he scowled right back at her, only with twice as much venom as he ever had before. He clutched the child tighter, turning to the right to keep her face out of view. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A child, surely you’ve seen one before.” Marleen’s scowl deepened; Sherlock very nearly growled at her. Marcus, possibly sensing some upcoming catastrophe, stepped in between them both, holding his hands up in both of their directions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The little one was stood up by her auntie, so we’re givin‘ her the room upstairs for the night” the cook turned her gaze on Marcus, “it’s still there, yes?” Marleen moved her head in some approximation of a nod; </span>
  <em>
    <span>room upstairs?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d never heard of it before, did Marcus live there? His observations hadn’t pointed to that. “Alright then, she’ll be there while her daddy works, ya can keep him a few extra minutes for bein’ late and he gets full pay, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock looked intently at Marleen, his piercing gaze willing her to accept. His hold over Bethany tightened to an uncomfortable degree if her hitting his shoulder was meant to be anything more than random violence. The cook looked at Beth and Sherlock, studying them </span>
  <span>both as the woman would a new dish; she softened, only enough for her to not seem as murderous as she usually did, and nodded her assent. Marcus clapped his hands together, pretending he didn’t see Sherlock’s relieved sigh, and went back the way they had come. The younger man followed him, going past the bar and walking behind the other pillar; a wooden door was there, a twin of the one leading to Marcus’ office, this door, however, led to a poorly-lit hallway. Beth looked around, completely in awe with the dark red walls, she pointed at the flicking lamp on the ceiling and cooed; Sherlock hummed, automatically agreeing with whatever she intended to say, and started up the stairs. Marcus guided them all the way up, turning to the right as they came upon another hallway, this one far better lit, and lined with wooden door after wooden door. The older man stopped at the end of the hall, holding a door open for them; as he peeked inside, Sherlock saw one of the smallest bedrooms he had ever seen. There was a single bed in the middle, a small wardrobe against the wall opposite of it, a window with drawn blue curtains, and a bedside table hosting a petite white lamp. He went inside, looking around much as the baby had minutes prior. Once he’d taken in everything there was to the room, he turned back to Marcus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?” he had his theories, of course, but wanted them confirmed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm? Oh, ma paps used to live here, he kept us all in the rooms up’ere” Sherlock looked around again; this had been Marcus’ room, he was sure of it. “After he passed, I kept ‘em for storage, nobody been livin’ here in years.''</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” All the other doors lead to rooms just like this one, then. Though, each of them ought to be filled with boxes and cast-offs; all but this one. Sentiment.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus studied Sherlock, looking him up and down as he was prone to do. Beth waved at them both, the pub owner waved back, still seeming to be deep in thought. The two men looked at each other for several breaths, each making assumptions about the other, but alas, they both said nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might wanna get the little one settled.” Marcus pointed at Beth and stepped out the door, lingering in the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, yes,” Sherlock walked towards the bed, laying Beth down gently and taking the bag off his shoulder. The Child smiled at him from her position on the bed; as he always did,  Sherlock smirked back -not quite a smile, but close enough. He started taking the atrocious coat off of Bethany, putting the garment and covers by his side. He grabbed several pillows and placed them around Beth, creating a form of barrier in case she decided to turn during the night and risk falling off the bed and to a broken neck. Children did have terrible survival instincts, it was a miracle so many of them reached adulthood. Once her shape had been outlined by the pillows, he took his daughter in his arms and started rocking her, willing her to sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She shouldn’t take long, it’s past her bedtime already” Marcus nodded yet again, still keeping to the hall. Sherlock went back to rocking Beth, who, in turn, decided to be the small child she is and started gnawing on his finger, covering it in drool. It took him seconds to tire of the older man insistently staring at the back of his neck. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t say nothin’”, he rolled his eyes at that; as if not speaking was the same as not being loud.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well you didn’t have to” he accidentally raised his voice much more than he intended, Beth grumbled in his arms, so he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Just ask” a voice at the back of his mind spatted at how resigned he sounded; he ignored it, keeping his voice low and eyes closed. Beth’s gnawing grew half-hearted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s her mum?” He tried his damndest not to flinch, to keep the blank mask over his face; going by Bethany’s sudden alertness, he failed spectacularly. He held onto her tighter.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perfect, white teeth and a devilish smirk flooded his mind; a burst of now familiar laughter sounded in his ears. He swallowed hard, attempting to keep the memory down, buried deep in his mind palace where it belonged. Isabel appeared in his mind’s eye, dancing under trees right outside her residential building back at Cambridge; when the smiles and laughter turned into a set of terrified, tearful eyes staring back at him as he held a positive pregnancy test in shaky hands, he opened his eyes. A shiver ran down his back, he inwardly cursed the betrayal from both his mind and transport. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Six feet underground half an hour from here” he looked at Beth’s nose, Isabel’s nose; a glaring reminder of a woman he once knew. His throat clenched, what he thought to have been a long-overcome grief keeping its hold around his neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus kid”, Marcus closed his eyes, the skin around his mouth pinched as his fists clenched; the few wrinkles adorning his face were far more visible like that. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She your girlfriend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock hesitated. Isabel and he had always been complicated, to say the least. There had been fights and tears on both sides, just as there had been dances and jokes; clearly, as Bethany’s entire existence indicated, there had also been more. They’d never bothered to label whatever they had been, they were just them; but the last months, after the first time he had gotten clean and they were perfectly aware of the new person who would soon join them, there had been hints and possibilities of going deeper, of being closer. The last months they had been different.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… near the end, yes” he kept his eyes on Beth, his mind drawing back to the night he suspected she had been created, “but not when we… when she got pregnant, at the time we were friends or something like it. We weren’t much of anything, romantic wise, but she… I did like her.” Why he was saying this now, especially to Marcus, he didn’t know. It hardly seemed like the kind of life story one shared with their employer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How old were ya? When ya had her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eighteen at the time of conception, barely nineteen at birth. Still nineteen now, as you already know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus nodded from his place out of the room, his arms still crossed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lass’ a few months old then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eight months.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s her name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up, hadn’t he said already? He thought back to every interaction with the older man he’d had so far, every time he had mentioned the baby, and realized that he hadn’t, in fact, mentioned her by name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bethany, we call her Beth.” Marcus raised an eyebrow narrowing his eyes, “her aunt and uncle, the three of us call her Beth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought ya said there was no family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head. The other man had been referring to parents, to any form of a responsible adult; of course he had said he didn’t have any. It wasn’t even a lie, he truly had had no parental presence in almost three years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re twenty, hardly the kind of family you meant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Friends?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Family on her mother’s side” he supposed such a description applied, from what he had gathered, Isabel and Gina were the only kind of family the other had, “well, her aunt is; Jack is Gina’s boyfriend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus nodded yet again, still watching them. Sherlock looked down at his arms and discovered Beth’s eyes were starting to close, she was finally falling asleep. He lowered her very slowly, placing her at the center of the pillow-made ring as gently as he could; he would be cross to wake her now. When the girl didn’t so much as scrunch up her nose, he covered her with the blankets and coat before turning back to Marcus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I brought…” he frowned, annoyed at his inability to form a coherent. He walked to the diaper bag he had dropped on the floor beside the bed, he rummaged inside it looking for the baby monitors Jack had bought for him days after he moved in with them. “In case anything happens, there shouldn't be a problem at this point, but it’s not her cot so… just, a preventive measure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure Marleen won’t have a problem” the older man waved him forward, starting to walk down the hall, “c’me on kid, off ya go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock turned on one of the monitors and clipped the other one to his belt before following the other man out the door; they walked down the hall, going back the way they had come. He hesitated near the stairs, stopping to listen if the child was still asleep. When the silence sustained, he turned around and walked away. They were back to the kitchen in less than a minute; some of the kitchen aids stopped what they were doing to glance at him, but gave up interest quickly and returned to what they were doing. He had intended to keep Beth out of the gossip, God knows there had been more than enough back at Cambridge. Apparently, it would follow them wherever they went. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went down to the sink and washed his hands, putting more care on the drooled on finger, and went in search of an apron. Marcus inclined his head just enough for him to see it and left. Taking it as his queue, Sherlock walked to the empty spot, a stove right next to Marleen, and started chopping the onions placed on the wooden board, clenching his teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s da babe.” The woman practically growled at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My daughter” Marleen turned to look at him then, clearly having no qualms about openly dissecting him on the spot. His knuckles turned white as they clenched around the knife, “yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman’s brows furrowed, her eyes studying his face with a look he couldn’t discern. Sherlock held his breath, not sure of what to expect from the older woman; surely she couldn’t do much to him for having Beth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his surprise, the cook deflated and went back to stirring the vegetables in her pan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She looks like ya.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it was his turn to openly study her. Marleen’s response had not been what he had expected, and clearly, it hadn’t been what she was thinking either. The older woman had no children, he had deduced as much soon after meeting her. Obsessed with her work and with an honestly horrid temperament, it was no surprise that Marcus and the pub seemed to be the only things in her life keeping her company. A scowl rested on her face, but that was nothing new. She didn’t seem bothered by him bringing the child along, or by him having a child in the first place; jumping to assumptions, yes, most likely some completely erroneous ones. But not bothered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His expressionless mask fell securely on his face as he looked at her, responding with far less hostility than any of their prior interactions had risen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would certainly hope so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To his surprise, Marleen’s lips curl in the closest approximation to a smile he has ever seen her wear. Still thinking of the evening’s new developments, Sherlock turned back to the onions and kept chopping, feeling pathetically proud of his progress in the art of vegetable preparation; a year ago, he would have scoffed at the mere thought of spending longer than half an hour in a kitchen, mentality that was clear as day in his first day at vegetable peeling and chopping. His father would not share in his enthusiasm, he knew that just as he knew the periodic table, with no hesitation. But again, his father wasn’t here, he hadn’t been here in years, so Sherlock supposed he could be inwardly free to enjoy a decently chopped up onion. Even if a small corner of his mind still insisted on pointing out his pathetic new way of life.</span>
  <em>
    <span> How the mighty have fallen, from Cambridge to a kitchen aid. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His chest constricted, tightening every time the voice decided to mock him; his lungs seemed incapable of drawing enough air in, as was a common occurence whenever his mind became too fast, too much, too crushingly active. He couldn’t afford an episode here, not now. Sherlock shook his head once, violently, trying to send the voices back to his basement. Instead, he decided to focus on Bethany, on her developmental list. There had been almost-words, but no proper ones yet; Gina was sure her first word would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dad</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he personally leaned more towards the single syllable </span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>, God knows the girl groaned about enough to sustain his theory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eyed the monitor on his belt again, hoping it wouldn’t emit a single sound throughout the night. He knew the child slept through nowadays; he also knew she hadn’t slept anywhere outside of the little corner her cot takes back at the shred flat. Another part of him couldn’t seem to stop obsessing over the fact that he was not in the same room as she was now; he had stayed by her side most days for a month and two weeks, and had left her accompanied every night since the two weeks of hell that they both somehow managed to get out of alive. It was much easier then, not worrying about her; how could he care about more than providing the bare minimum when he was always completely off his tits, or pushing down memories of Isabel, or staying deep inside his mind palace? It was very different this time around, he couldn’t say he wasn’t pleased. These past five months had been much better than the absolute numbness-turned-misery of before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eyed the monitor again when a knee tapped his own; turning to look at his right, he came face to face with Mason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s really cute.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no need to ask who he meant. Sherlock fought down a smile; his hands froze in their task as he realized he had to fight against smiles and chuckles far too often when in the ginger’s presence. But before he could ask or say anything, Mason had already walked away and gone back to work on the opposite side of the kitchen. His onion chopping skills weren’t the only topic running through his mind anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When it was empty, it was much easier to see just how small the kitchen truly was. Now that the sun was coming up and the night-shifters had gone home for the day, Sherlock was surrounded by quiet, enjoying the short lull between closing time and the first shift. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He carried another box of just-cleaned cooking utensils to the long table in the far right; starting to put up the spoons and knives in their respective racks. Marleen was watching him from the side, leaning against a white wall. The odd expression from earlier was still on her face. The monitor on his belt flared to life, a near-wakefulness-whine filling the small room. He looked at Marleen, raising an eyebrow in a silent request, the older woman nodded stiffly. That being all he needed, Sherlock put down the box and went back to the other pillar, across the door, and up the stairs. He went into the room, leaving the door open behind him, and stood over Beth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon seeing him, the little girl smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello” he murmured, taking her into his arms, “I’m afraid I’m not done here Child, you should go back to sleep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bethany, of course, didn’t listen. Her eyes stayed stubbornly open as she started up with the familiar babble. With a sigh, Sherlock turned off the baby monitors and carried her downstairs with him, keeping her wrapped in one of the blankets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They went back to the kitchen, knowing he still had a few boxes to move around before he would be dismissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they entered, the few people that had stayed behind to help turned to look at Beth, avidly taking her in. Mason stopped drying a plate and walked to them, smiling at both father and daughter. Once he was close enough to touch them, he looked at Beth gently, the girl looked back at him and offered him a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow”, taken aback by the wonder in the other man’s voice, Sherlock had to blink repeatedly, waiting as his hard drive solved whatever glitch it had encountered. Very few people reacted like that when they saw him with the baby.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you never seen a baby before?” Mason scoffed, passing a hand through the small black curls on Bethany’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be an arse” he raised an eyebrow at the other man, pointing to Beth with his chin. The redhead had the decency to look down guiltily, “sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now very amused, Sherlock turned to look at the cook, lifting Beth slightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there somewhere I can put her down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of answering him, Marleen looked directly at Mason and pointed behind her with her thumb.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Highchairs in the back, brin’ one lad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mason attempted a nod that shook his whole body and practically ran in the direction the older woman had pointed at. The other kitchen aids sent furtive smiles at Beth whenever they encountered her looking at them but otherwise left them well alone; Sherlock was grateful. Not that he would ever say so, of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mason came back into the room, carrying a highchair over his shoulder. He put it down close to where Sherlock had been working and smiled at Sherlock’s questioning brow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the morning clients, most come with children.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He put Beth in the highchair, giving her the stuffed dog he had taken out of the diaper bag -hoping she would find some way to entertain herself that wouldn’t need for him to be by her side every second-, and went back to the boxes. Marleen continued her open staring, this time studying the small person that was Beth. After ten minutes of the same relentless scrutiny, he decided to end whatever pointless chatter the older woman would surely attempt to make whenever he finished working. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go ahead, spare me the wait” he snapped, voice cutting, “ask my age, hers, the circumstances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need” both Mason and Beth looked nervously between the two of them, “clear isn’ it? Ya’re less than twenty, lassie no more than a year, makes ya a teen daddy, don’t it? I already know, why ask?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock frowned. The woman had not reacted the way he had expected her to at all; she had been her unpleasant self, certainly, but no more than any other day. He looked back at Beth, who was preoccupied showing the stuffed dog to Mason. With an indignant sniff, he went back to picking up boxes, quieting down the idea that had started to brew in his head hours earlier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door unlocked with a click, opening wide for both him and Beth to finally enter the only excuse for a home they had. He locked the door behind him, turning to find both Jack and Gina sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee each, just as he found them most mornings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gina looked up at him and grimaced, guilt twisting her features as her eyes fell on Beth. Jack wasn’t far behind, though he hid the worry better. Sherlock limited himself to a shrug while he dropped the diaper bag by the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We were fine,” he muttered, walking to them, “there was a room at the pub, Bethany slept there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, that’s good, right?” Jack immediately perked up, smiling gently; he looked to Gina.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” She readily agreed. Sherlock started walking to the cot, meaning to leave Beth in it and take a shower, as he usually did after work; Gina seemed to have other plans, standing up abruptly and running to the kitchen bar, grabbing a small paper, “hold on! Something arrived for you earlier, it’s a letter, I didn’t read from whom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock changed course, handing Beth to Jack and grabbing the small piece of paper; he recognized both the envelope’s brand and the embedded smells in it, if that wasn’t enough, his name was written at the front in a familiar elegant scrawl that was as rehearsed and falsely perfected as its owner. Mycroft. He nodded his thanks to Gina and walked out of the kitchen, staying behind the wall that started the hallway towards the bathroom. He wanted to read whatever was inside the envelope on his own, as far from prying eyes as possible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He got the paper out and unfolded it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m afraid there have been troublesome rumours regarding your person, brother mine. Do try and clear the air at the earliest convenience; Mummy worries. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I trust the raised access to your trust fund is acceptable, if not, you might just have to call.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-MH</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>A phone number was written at the lower right corner, Mycroft’s. It was different from the one Sherlock already knew; apparently, he wasn’t the only one whose life had changed in the last year. With a huff, he memorized the new number, not that he intended to use it any time soon; but in case he needed it eventually…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After all, it was his brother who seemed obsessed with the idea of family and obligation, not him. Had it been up to Sherlock, he would have waved good riddance the day Mycroft confirmed his greatest fears and said he would not be going back to the house in Surrey for some time, leaving Sherlock completely alone with their parents and the idiotic gossips they had for neighbors. And if such a statement sounded unfair or childish -which it didn’t, it was a perfectly fair resentment-, it may have had something to do with the fact he had been a fourteen-year-old who was being abandoned by the only low excuse of </span>
  <em>
    <span>support </span>
  </em>
  <span>he’d had in the old house.  At least he now knew for certain the raised access had been his brother’s work, not his parent’s; hardly a surprise, really. Not after the last time they had seen each other or the lack of contact thereafter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He read the letter again, his mind stuck at the most hypocritical line in it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mummy worries.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Was he supposed to believe that? If their mother worried at all, one would expect her to pick up the phone herself and call, to be her overbearing, suffocating self and attempt to take over his life while simultaneously pointing out everything he’d done wrong with it; she’d hardly be short of material. His throat clenched, white seething rage and something else he didn’t care to name growing in his chest, down his torso, up his trachea, and ending in his head. After everything, after the last fight, after the day he had gotten in a train with a single suitcase in his hand and no companion, after he had left the house, and the country, and the name, and exchanged them for the city because he had been given little choice; after all he had heard from his parents when he was courting cocaine was getting completely cut off his trust fund and there had been not even a whisper since having a baby; after it had been made perfectly clear that he was not welcome into the family his parents wanted to believe they had, </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, mummy worries?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He folds the letter, seconds away from dropping it on the floor and stomping on it; for some reason, he doesn’t. Instead, he goes back to the living room and puts the letter into his bag. Grabbing pajamas and making sure Beth was still with Jack and Gina, he went to the bathroom and started the shower. As he washed his hair, the same idea that had been plaguing his mind all night took root, growing by the second.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span></span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By the time his shift was about to start the next day, he knocked on Marcus’ door yet again. This time, Beth had been able to stay with Gina, who had no exams for two days; Jack had not been as lucky, having a study session during the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus opened the door, looking around and, at seeing no babies, he smiled at Sherlock and let him into the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the matter, kid?” The pub owner leaned back on his desk, keeping his expression friendly and, oddly, expectant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still don’t have a flat” Sherlock wrung his fingers, “I probably won’t for some time, but the people I’m staying with… it’s bound to stop working soon.” This much was a fact, every month it’s kept getting harder to rely on the other two; and it’s gotten harder for them to fit both Sherlock and Bethany into their lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marcus smiled at him slightly, clasping his hands together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, anythin’ I can do for ya?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock moved his head in what could have been a nod; getting his thoughts properly ordered. He’d rehearsed what he would say. If his calculations were correct, Marcus wouldn’t need much from him in order to agree.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last night, that room Beth stayed in”, the older man nodded, “you said no one has lived there for some time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right.” The pub owner gave him a sad smile, tilting his head to the side, “it’s hardly a room lad, not much space.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a nineteen-year-old with a baby, I don’t need much space”, Sherlock deadpanned. He sighed, “as long as it’s not someone else’s sofa.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was silence between them, each keeping perfectly still. Sherlock’s lungs spasmed in his chest. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He needed this</span>
  </em>
  <span>; perhaps not urgently, not economically, but he needed it. The space, a place of his own, for him and Beth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll need cleanin’”, Marcus raised an eyebrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I’ll clean it”, at the other man’s lack of response, Sherlock’s anxiety grew. It wasn’t that hard, just a yes or a no, hopefully, a yes, “honestly, there’s hardly much to think about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ya sure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someday, soon, I will have no one else to leave her with. Again.” Sherlock freed his fingers, crossing his arms over his chest and butting his chin, “or I will need to take extra hours, or something else entirely.” Marcus, seemingly unsatisfied with his reasoning, said nothing. Sherlock took a deep breath and said what he had hoped to avoid, “I need my own place, no </span>
  <span>matter how small,” he looked down, his neck tense, “and you have to admit to the convenience of the accessibility I would have to her while in the kitchen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, if ya’re sure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock looked up to find an amused smile playing on the other man’s lips and, to his surprise, an extended hand holding a key. He allowed a hint of a smile and took them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That weekend found Marcus and Sherlock moving boxes to and out of the room. Jack was holding Beth’s luggage while Gina held the baby herself. They had been glad when he told them about the room -Sherlock noticed they were trying to hide just how relieved they also were- but had insisted on joining him when he chose to move and overviewing the room themselves. He had warned them how small it was, wanting to avoid any comments when they finally saw it; even so, Gina had stopped short at seeing just how much so, but had thankfully held her tongue. Marcus and he finished putting the cot between the window and the bed, the rest of Sherlock’s things already in the room. He stood straight and looked around. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This would work</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s that, then”, Marcus clapped, looking around as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eloquent as ever”, he rolled his eyes at the older man. Gina smirked but tried to hide it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nice, the view is great,” Jack said, having entered the room and looking out the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is! There ya go, lad” the pub-owner-now-landlord exclaimed happily, gently hitting Sherlock’s shoulder. They all stood there in silence, Marcus, getting the hint, started towards the door. “I’ll be gettin’ this to the other rooms”, he picked up a few of the storage boxes and left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took five seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure about this?” Gina was wearing on her lip, anxiously looking around the room and hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Sherlock tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “we’ll be fine. I’m more than capable of looking after the Child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of them mentioned the unsaid </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span> that followed that sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that”, the young woman looked at him, seeking his eyes, “but, you’ll be alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack, noticing their anxiety, walked to his girlfriend and hugged her from the side, smiling at Sherlock as he did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gina, this is the time you let them grow up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gina walked to him, handing Beth over, gave them a long look, nodded, and stepped back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll come to visit once exams week is over”, she said, pointing a finger at him, “and call in between.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolled his eyes, though halfheartedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you must.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I insist.” She stepped up to him with a watery smile and squeezed his shoulder, “don’t be a stranger, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock nodded, his annoyance now completely gone. Jack stepped forward to hold Gina’s hand and smiled at father and daughter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then, ready to play the adult?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock huffed, certainly not swaying in his spot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As I ever will be, I suspect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sorry, I was talking to Beth”, Jack held up a hand, pointing at the baby, “clearly she’s the level-headed one in the equation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A laugh was startled out of Sherlock’s throat, taking the other three by surprise. Beth squealed, choosing to join in on her father's joy, no matter she had no idea what was happening. Both Jack and Gina chuckled at them both, still holding hands tightly. After a long breath, Sherlock looked back up at the two twenty-year-olds with whom he had grown closer over the last eight months than he ever expected to be. He allowed himself to give them half a smile and a resolute nod. A nod that was answered by the couple and, maintaining the silence, they turned around and walked away, leaving Beth and Sherlock in their new home. Their first proper home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked around again, unexpectedly satisfied with the newest development in his life. He smiled at the baby in his arms and lowered her in her cot -making sure to give her the stuffed dog and avoid any possible catastrophes-, sitting down close to her as he pulled one of his boxes and started on the tedious process of unpacking. Beth babbled at the dog, keeping herself busy while her father took out clothes and books, placing them on the bed. Lastly, he went to a very specific box, the one he had obsessively guarded since leaving the flat, and pulled out a black violin case. It was a bit dusty, showing the signs of the disuse it had suffered over the last few months, ever since Isabel had been buried. The night of Bethany’s birth had been the last one he had attempted to play anything, and he ended up dropping his bow when the thoughts in his head became all too heavy for even the music to carry. After that, he had been unable to carry a single note. He’d tried composing once, something about Sabel, and Beth, and himself; a sorrowful piece about a family that would forever be incomplete; he had left only a few lines done. He looked at his daughter, Isabel’s daughter; perhaps, if he played for her, the violin could slip back into his life. He would like that, he would like that very much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock left the case by the bed and went back to the box, getting out medical journals and the notebooks of his past research. Under the papers, he saw the corner of a small wooden box, one he didn’t remember. He pulled it out and opened it, curious to see what he may have forgotten. The box hit the floor with a deaf thud when he accidentally dropped it. He knew exactly what that bag had, what the white powder meant. He thought he had thrown all of it away after moving in with Jack and Gina; it would seem he had missed one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kid, I’m starvin’”, Sherlock grabbed the wooden box, startled, “want anythin’ special?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s fine.” He called out, hoping Marcus would stay wherever he was. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Downstairs, going by acoustics. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock opened the lid again, staring at the small plastic bag. His eyes raised to look at Beth, at his daughter, who was obliviously playing with her dog. He shut the lid again and shook his head, thinking of throwing it away. He should, he knew he should. With Bethany soon to be crawling, with himself just finally getting closer to what he wanted, with Marcus being both his employer and his landlord; he couldn’t go back to cocaine, he really, </span>
  <em>
    <span>really,</span>
  </em>
  <span> couldn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he couldn’t make his legs move towards the bathroom and throw it out either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he kept the lid closed and walked to the bedside table; he opened the drawer and put the box at the very back, hiding it under magazines and journals he had brought with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dada”, he looked up, completely startled. Bethany had never said that -or anything- before. His breath hitched, getting stuck in his throat. Unexplainably, his eyes started stinging, an annoying wetness filling them. He cleared his throat and walked to the cot. The baby smiled at him and repeated the word, following it up by indescifrable babbles. He picked her up, squeezing her against his chest and pressing his lips against her black curls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here”, he whispered, pretending his voice hadn’t wobbled. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock closed his eyes, holding his daughter close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That wooden box shouldn’t have been there; he shouldn’t have kept it, he shouldn’t be keeping it now. For the first time in months, the world closed in on his skin, pressing against him as if trying to drown him. His head turned into a storm, shaky breaths leaving his lips as salty droplets fell on the baby’s curls. Sherlock kept his head down, curling up around his child as he attempted to weather the storm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The box would be a test; he would leave it where it was and refuse to use it. And, after enough time had passed, he would get rid of it. It was simply a test, an experiment on his resilience. If it got too difficult, if he felt too tempted to reignite the old flame of a destructive affair, he would take the box to Gina, or Jack, or Marcus, or anyone. He would get rid of it the moment the risk was too great.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wouldn’t use, not anymore. Not again. Not now that he was finally better. Not after he had been his daughter’s first word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wouldn’t use.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wouldn't.</span>
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please don't hate me? I am, apparently, incapable of keeping it fluffy.<br/>BUT, not to worry, there is still a long way to go and more fluff to come along with it... as well as more angst, but hopefully, it'll even out.<br/>This was part 4! I hope you liked it and are ready for part 5, which will be longer. I already know what we will see in it and which known characters will come out and play properly (ahem, Holmes clan). It might take a few days for the first chapter to come out though, it's looking like my next week will also be very busy.<br/>But I was planning to upload the playlist in between one part and the other, seeing as some people do want to see it -which makes me very happy.<br/>So, that's all for now. Have a good weekend, hope you like the series so far, and I'll upload the next part as fast as I can.<br/>:)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! I hope you liked this part, and if you did and haven't checked out the rest of the series, then I hope you do and like it just as much :)</p><p>I'm very excited about what comes next, Sherlock and Beth's journey is far from over and I hope you want to see it as much as me :)</p><p>PS: The work's title comes from the song North by Sleeping at Last.<br/>PS.2: I made a playlist for this story, would anyone be interested in me sharing it?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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